


The Place Where You Are.

by withoutwords



Series: Isak and Even Short Fics. [2]
Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Intimacy, M/M, Mental Illness, Some Fluff, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 11:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8888434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutwords/pseuds/withoutwords
Summary: “Alright, so it’s about this boy.”“Ugh. Can he hold his breath under water?”





	

Even smells like soap, and smoke. He smells like the sweet gloss Noora uses on her lips sometimes, like berries and cream. Isak wonders how you can spend so much of your life not knowing something, someone, not knowing how it feels or sounds or smells. He wonders how he’s supposed to control himself now that he has it, burying his nose in Even’s throat and his lips in Even’s skin and his nails into Even’s shoulders.

He’s holding on for dear life, but he’s already fallen.

“Seriously,” Even says around a breath, his grip tight at Isak’s waist. They’ve been like this for a while now, Isak’s lost track of time; just kissing, kissing, kissing until Isak was scrambling to pull at Even’s hair, to get a better angle, to get more.

“What?”

“You’re just,” Even starts, and he’s squinting as he grins, and he’s twisting and pushing and getting Isak onto his back. He’s so long and smooth and warm, like a drug, and Isak can’t see straight.

“What am I doing wrong?”

“Wrong? It’s not wrong.”

“Okay.” He pulls at Even’s collar where it gapes, opening his mouth for a slick, hot kiss while his leg curls around Even’s back. 

The apartment is quiet, now, except the hum of noise through the open window. It’s just the two of them, and the rustle of the sheets, and the crackle of this energy that Isak feels right down to his toes.

“Isak, Isak, Isak,” Even says quietly, pulling away enough to brush their noses together.

“Even, Even, Even,” Isak mocks.

“Can I tell you a story?”

Isak pulls a face at him. “Right now?”

“Yes, right now.”

They move around a little until they’re both on their sides, until their face to face and their knees knock. Isak pulls a pouting face and doesn’t even feel stupid about it. “Fine.”

“Fine?” Even repeats, mock hurt, “It’s a good story. It’s a great story.”

“Sure. Let me be the judge of that.”

“No, no, no. If you’re going to be so sceptical then I won’t bother.”

Even presses at Isak’s face and Isak kicks at Even’s shins and by the time Even has him in a headlock Isak has given up. “Just tell me,” he says, worn out and wound up and so full, full of want and wonder and hope. He takes a handful of Even’s shirt and ducks his head to see Even’s throat work as he talks.

“Alright, so it’s about this boy.”

“Ugh. Can he hold his breath under water?”

“He can, actually. He’s a master at it.” Isak just rolls his eyes again, pretending that the huff of Even’s laughter doesn’t make him want to laugh too. “So, this boy, he decides he can’t stay where he is any more. He doesn’t belong there. There’s nothing that makes sense there. He doesn’t make sense there. So he leaves. He’s not sure where he’s going to go - he hasn’t got any money, or friends, or family. He’s completely alone. He just walks, and walks, and walks.”

Even pauses, but Isak stays quiet. He curls in more, and grabs at him a little tighter, and breathes.

“Then along the way he meets all these people. He meets a man who fixes his shoes. And a woman who gives him some food. And a child that plays a game with him when they notice he’s feeling sad. And so after a while, it gets easier to walk. Some days he can even run. And while all these people he meets are helping him, all these people he might even think of as his friends now, his family, he just keeps on walking until he decides where it is he wants to be. He just keeps on walking, even when it hurts.”

Isak can barely get the words out when he asks, “Does he stop?” his throat full of something threatening to pour out. Tears, or worries, or oaths.

“Maybe,” Even says softly into Isak’s hair, his hand coming up to play at the curls.

“I think he will.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Isak says, definite, tilting his head up to look in Even’s eyes. They’re light, but they’re fearful, like he’s just passed something fragile to Isak, like he’s waiting for it to drop. Isak bites at his lip. “I mean, even Forrest Gump stopped, eventually.”

Even’s laughter is so sudden and shocking that it echoes around the room. He rolls Isak onto his back again, and tickles at his sides, and says, “Idiot,” with as much affection as Isak’s ever heard anyone say it.

“Yeah, I am,” Isak agrees, pressing their lips together, their noses, their foreheads. “A total idiot for you.”

Their gentle kisses turn heated again, turn to Even hitching Isak’s shirt up to get a hand underneath, turn to Isak rocking his body up to invite him in. It’s always like this, so instinctual, so primal; Isak wonders who he was before he knew this so complete.

(But it’s not complete, he thinks as Even peels off his shirt, we’re still learning, I’m still learning. They can be this, skin on skin; they can be more, touching, tasting, sex. But they have a long way to go – a long road ahead. Isak’s here for all of it. Isak’s here for Even.)

“Stay with me,” Isak tells him with a gasp, though there’s a lot more he should say, a lot more he could do. He knows Even will understand. “Stay.”


End file.
